The Outside World
by Leonardo in Blue
Summary: Splinter can no longer journey between their sewer home and the outside world. How will the four young turtles and their father survive? No longer a one-shot
1. Prologue: Not Too Proud

**The Outside World**

_- Leonardo in Blue_

**A/N:** Was previously a one-shot but I decided to build upon it. Bear with me, this is my first attempt. -cries- Kinda based off of the old cartoon assuming Splinter was once human. Hope you enjoy!

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**_Prologue: Not Too Proud_**

The pungent aroma of grease and flour attacked starved senses as a half-wrapped, half-eaten cheeseburger from a local fast food establishment landed on a stained and worn bed sheet.

"Sorry man, s'all I got," a slightly dismissive voice declared as its owner shrugged and continued his evening commute down the city sidewalk.

The beggar to whom he spoke sat hunched pitifully on the bed sheet, shrouded completely in a dark bundle of musty, moth-eaten blankets which mystically concealed his entire visage. He had excellently acute hearing, and the soft jingle of pocket change growing fainter gave away the pedestrian's untruth. It did not matter anyway; the beggar was keeping his fair share of secrets and exhibiting his own little untruths. Slowly and cautiously, two slender hands padded in heavy black gardening gloves moved forward to grasp at the still warm scrap of food that had been unceremoniously tossed down. The beggar drew in the paltry bit of food and nibbled fiercely at it until he was lapping at the greasy, non-biodegradable packaging. Having fed, he neatly folded the crackling paper and placed it down beside him as if it would come to some further use. A soft sigh escaped the hood-like blankets and the beggar leaned forward to peek into the soft drink cup he had converted to a charity receptacle. It contained a decent sum of coins and a crumpled dollar bill or two. With a nod, the beggar sat back against the brick wall by which he had set camp and continued his people-watching from behind shadowy eyes. Hundreds if not thousands of rush hour commuters and pedestrians strolled or hurried by within the two hours the beggar allotted for his evening soliciting. Some were generous and offered him food (usually partially eaten or otherwise cheap and unhealthy) or a few coins, while others seemed uneasy or repulsed by his cult-like appearance and steered clear of his camp. During his scavenging around alley dumpsters, he had come across a working black permanent marker and some dusty cardboard boxes. He tore a section of a box lid and used it as a makeshift sign, on which he wrote, with much dismay, "World War II Veteran".

Though quite familiar with that era, claiming to be a veteran of war was the aforementioned untruth. But never the less, the sign sat propped beside him and, although he was sitting hunched silently in the same exact shroud as before, people seemed more interested in tossing change into his cup and looked upon him with less disgust in their eyes. When occasionally spoken to, he would shudder, cough and speak in raspy incoherent words to sound as sickly and pathetic as possible so no one would care to approach too closely afterwards.

So this had become his ritual, day in and day out. His shadowy eyes gazed up to the large clock adorning the side of a tall building on the opposite side of the busy street. It was nearing on six o'clock in the evening. It was time for him to go.

The beggar took excruciating care in the way he stood up. If people were to take notice of any odd features or see that he might be a little more able bodied than he let on, it could have been trouble for him. However, it was New York City, and most people did not allow strange-looking or acting individuals concern them if it was not an inconvenience to them personally. The beggar rose up slowly and reached down discreetly to collect his effects. The cup of money was nestled snugly within the nest of blankets that enveloped his person. The sheet was folded delicately and compactly for easy transport, and the sign was similarly folded and tucked away into the blankets. For one so burdened, he moved quickly and efficiently and drew little to no attention from those around him. Then, just like that, he slipped away into the shadows of a nearby alley.

He treaded cautiously but swiftly down the passageways between the towering buildings. He weaved adeptly between dumpsters, stacks of boxes, and other obstacles that would impede his progress. Minutes later he arrived at his destination: a main street of China Town. Hugging his blankets close to his body, he shuffled more as though he was impaired physically and made his way to the marketplace. The street was still relatively busy with outdoor grocers and vendors selling their wares, but the beggar knew that as the sun waned, the vendors would be preoccupied with preparations to close their shops for the evening. It was on this fact that he depended to keep a low profile as he did his shopping. A particular fruits and vegetables vendor with very reasonable prices and decent produce was his daily stop. More importantly, the owner was always scrambling about and barking at his son to stop being lazy and to help bring in the wares while he tended to last minute customers. The beggar plodded down the row of fruits and veggies and selected a head of lettuce that looked healthy and still crunchy. His gloved hands moved to a bundle of six carrots that seemed dry but still good, and then to a large white radish. After selecting several fruits, both dried and fresh, he moved to the stand owner who was bickering with his ward.

"Please," the beggar said in a hushed yet audible, raspy voice.

The merchant turned and glared at him, but his uppity mood softened at the sight of the talking pile of blankets. "Oh it's you," his heavily accented voice greeted. The blankets nodded. Quickly the merchant scanned the items the beggar held up in his gardening gloves. "Three dollar," he breathed, turning to give his son a commanding look. The younger man grimaced and hopped down from the concrete stoop and held out his hand in front of the beggar. Without seeming too expert in balance, the beggar cradled his purchases over in one arm while digging into his blankets with his free hand. Though most people would have trouble reaching into a small plastic cup through cocoon of blankets while wearing thick gloves and counting out dimes and nickels without looking, the beggar did it rather quickly and dexterously. He placed the exact amount into the young man's hand, bowed graciously, turned, and tottered off. Although this had become a daily phenomenon, the young man was still puzzled and amazed by the strange patron.

Now came the last leg of the beggar's routine. He stealthily slipped into the shadows of an alley way and stopped next to an neglected tin trashcan that saw no use. He stood there motionlessly for several minutes, eyes shifting in all directions and senses sharp. If he detected someone in the vicinity, he would move to a different alley or lay down as if to fall asleep. Once any danger of being watched was gone, he would move the trashcan to reveal a loosened manhole cover. With great speed and precision, he would remove his blankets and stow them away in the trashcan and slide open the heavy metal cover in one swift motion. A second later, he had completely disappeared.

A wave of rotten sewage coursed through the stuffy air beneath the street surface, and despite his heightened sense of smell, he took no notice. The blankets had concealed what most would think of as an abomination: a tawny, four and a half foot tall rat now clad in traditional Japanese garb. He quickly slid down the ladder and into the unsavory mix of sewage below. With fruits and veggies bundled in his arms and his cup of coins tucked into his kimono, he made haste against the flow of unspeakably unsanitary liquid.

Though a dark, foreboding, and innundated with "poo" (just ask Mike Rowe), the sewer was his home and place of safety. Having lived in them for over five years, the rat Splinter, as he now called himself, knew each twist and turn of the massive underground system by heart. Though certainly far from his prime, he moved with unbridled speed to a remote corner where a rotting, boarded up wooden door lay hidden in the dark. Even if one was looking for it, it would remain well hidden unless one knew its location by heart. Splinter approached the portal with caution, sniffing at the putrid air to make absolutely certain he had not been followed by any manner of being. With the greatest care, he pushed his shoulder against the door which gave slowly despite the illusion of being nailed shut. With bounty of vegetables in arm, he stepped into the dark space beyond the door and closed it with the heel of his hind paw. A disused utility area spread out before him; this was where he kept his four most precious treasures.


	2. Chapter 1: Lost in Panic

**The Outside World**

_- Leonardo in Blue_

**A/N:** This chapter (and the rest of the story) takes place 3 years later, just in case you're confuzzled. :)

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**_Chapter 1: Lost in Panic  
_**

Short but strong legs pumped fiercely through the dank and dismal enclosure of New York City's subterranean labyrinth, causing a frenzied "splish splash splish splash" to resonate between the cold walls. A young turtle, no more than 4 feet tall (though quite large by any normal turtle standards) sprinted as quickly as his toughened feet would carry him through the murky water and congealed sewage. This was clearly no place for any eight-year-old child to play nor, I daresay, make his home, yet the young terrapin knew each twist and turn of the dark, dangerous corridors as though he had lived there his entire life. Which, indeed, he had.

However, on this particular evening, the young turtle felt lost and terrified by his surroundings. Each fork in the tunnel seemed confusing and unfamiliar; he had veered into several dead ends and backpedalled fearfully as the flowing green sludge beneath his toes was swallowed up by a grinning metal grate. It felt to him as if he had been running for hours, or even days. It frightened him to no end. He finally came to an area that resembled crossroads, something that should have been familiar, but instead seemed alien and almost like it was taunting him. He scurried to the maw of each connecting tunnel, stopping to jog in place as he second-guessed his choice of direction. His lower lip trembled and tears fought their way into the corners of his usually disciplined eyes. Finally, his stalwart inner strength gave out and he let forth a hopeless whimper, and then cried out in a childlike but powerful voice which echoed violently throughout the suffocating, narrow curves of the sewer tunnels. "Michelangelo! Raphael! Donatello! Help me!!"

"Is he better yet, huh Donnie, huh? Is he?" an anxious yet sweet voice demanded over and over again behind small, waving green fists.

"Almost Mikey, almost! Gee whiz, just be patient... please," a slightly deeper and more mature, but equally youthful voice responded.

"Yeah Mikey, you're so annoying sometimes," a third voice chimed in with a bit of overemphasized gruffness.

"Am not, am not!"

"Are too!"

Two more turtles of similar stature were kneeling on the hard concrete floor of a large underground utility room. Orange and violet sweatbands lined their small but muscular arms, and they sat huddled over what seemed to be a dismembered soldier-- a well-used action figure toy. A third turtle boy stood aloof from the others while leaning his shelled back against a wall, crimson-banned arms crossed over his chest while he feigned disinterest in the fate of the injured soldier by insulting his smaller brother.

It was their designated playtime- an hour to romp about and do whatever they pleased, within reason, before suppertime. Sometimes they played together; sometimes they grew tired of one another or were holding a grudge from their daily martial arts training a couple hours beforehand and chose to go their separate ways. Today, Michelangelo, Donatello, and Raphael fancied a game of "army man". The concept of soldiers and war had been explained to them only very briefly and vaguely on the day they discovered Sergeant. Pepperoni (as Michelangelo had named the toy hence) floating face-down in the streaming sewage outside of their makeshift lair. Toys were a rare find for the odd sewer-dwelling family; so needless to say, the pale, slightly stinky action figure was a real treasure.

Sadly, Sergeant Pepperoni had taken a near fatal plunge from the steep cliffs of the moth-eaten couch and General Michelangelo had rushed the soldier to Nurse Donnie for immediate intensive care. Donatello, luckily, was a patient and kind-hearted boy and was quite handy working with small details and points of articulation. He had a unique and innate understanding of how things around him worked that his brothers seemed to lack, especially for one at such a young age and under such lavishly strange circumstances. He was, however, opposed to being rushed in his craft.

"You killed Sergeant Pain, now we'll never get to play-" the red-clad one growled under his breath, his true disappointment finally beginning to shine through.

"Raph, his name is Sergeant Pepperoni!" the smaller turtle beseeched as he loomed closer to Donatello's precise operation on the toy.

"Aw who cares, it's a dumb game anyway!"

"Is not!"

"Is too!"

"Come one guys, be quiet!" Donatello snapped as their bickering took its toll on his seemingly boundless patience. A rather uncharacteristically smug tone enveloped his voice, as it sometimes did when the boy knew his cleverness was of great value to his brothers. "Surgery takes skill and concentration."

As he began meticulously reattaching one of Sergeant Pepperoni's legs, he suddenly dropped the tiny screwdriver and perked his attention sharply towards the rotting wooden door of their musty home.

"Did you hear that?" he suddenly inquired, also dropping Sergeant Pepperoni abruptly from his normally careful and doting hands.

"No no no!" Michelangelo cried out, his pudgy little fingers grasping wildly out to catch the toy before it collided with the floor and broke again. "Donnie!" he whimpered as he looked up to see why Donatello had forced Sergeant. Pepperoni to earn another Purple Heart.

Raphael had lighted from his position at the wall and took several steps towards the old door. He said nothing, but glanced briefly down at Donatello with a meaningful look.

"Where's Leonardo?" Donatello mouthed, calculating all the possibilities of the source of sound he swore he just heard echoing past the door outside.

Michelangelo blinked and his short attention span seemed to forgive the fact that the toy soldier lay in ruins again. "I asked him if he wanted t'play but he said nuh uh." He corrected his posture and sat much straighter, as if tuning into his brothers' sudden unrest and disinterest in repairing their plaything.

"Yeah he went out joggin' or somethin'," Raphael appended. His eye ridges angled in thought and the corner of his mouth twitching into an unintentional smirk. "He got mad and he kept sayin' I sucker punched him in the dojo when we was trainin'." A pause. "But I didn't."

Donatello could feel the weight of Raphael's fib wash over him, but the echo surged behind the door again. "That sounds like him!" he insisted, rising to his feet and trotting to the door.

Michelangelo's ears finally picked up the sound too. Reflexively, he rose to his feet and looked genuinely confused. "But why's he yellin'?" he asked, clasping his fingers together as if bracing for a lecture. "He's not s'posed to!" They had been repeatedly told not to make noise above a whisper when traveling through the sewer tunnels. What they heard was definitely loud, panicked cries.

Raphael took action and brushed harshly past Donatello who seemed reluctant to further approach the closed portal. The brash young turtle grasped the rusty handle and flung the door open, striding out into the softly hissing liquid sewage beyond. Donatello and Michelangelo quickly followed suit and marched out of the room, both bravely hiding behind Raphael's shell.

It was eerily silent again as they gazed into the dark pit of the tunnel. The three brothers looked at each other uneasily, then back into the emptiness.

"LEO!" Raphael suddenly roared out at the top of his little lungs. Donatello nearly jumped out of his shell and Michelangelo let out a high-pitched squeak of surprise.

"Raphael!" Donatello gasped, grabbing onto his brother's arm and tugging on it. "Not so loud!"

"But--" Raphael was about to argue when Leonardo's distant voice responded.

"HELP ME!"

Without hesitation, and without even giving each other a second glance, the three young turtles sprinted in the direction of their brother's voice. A million things raced through each of their minds. What could be attacking their brother, Leonardo? Was it an alligator? They had never actually seen one of the alleged sewer beasts before, but they had been told to be very cautious. If Leonardo was breaking the rule of keeping silent and crying for help, nothing short of a monster attack could be the reason for it.

Raphael was the more athletic of his two accompanying brothers and he pushed ahead harder as if in the last stretch of a race. "Leo!" he called out again as he saw glimmers of the color blue in the distance.

"Raphael!" came the response, tired and desperate. "Donatello! Mich--" Leondardo tripped suddenly and in a blur of green and blue, plunged face first into the filthy water below.

"Leo!" the three other brothers yelped in unison as they reached their fallen sibling.

Raphael briefly touched Leonardo's shell with his fingers to let his brother know he was safe now that they were there to protect him. Instantly he leaped forward and assumed a defensive stance, gold-colored eyes hardened and sharp, ready to face whatever foul beast that could have possibly harmed his strong and brave brother Leonardo. He was greeted with silence and darkness.

Donatello and Michelangelo promptly picked Leonardo out of the pungent muck and hoisted him up to rest between their shoulders. Leonardo gasped for breath as the unspeakable waste streamed down his forehead and over his cheeks. Michelangelo and Donatello struggled to steady him back onto his feet. Raphael continued scanning the tunnel, but could detect no immediate danger. He turned around to face his brothers, letting his muscles loosen again. "Leo, what's wrong with you? There's nothin' there!" he barked, embarrassed that his heart was pounding so hard from the fear and anxiety that something might have happen to his brother.

"Leonardo, what happened? What is chasing you?" Donatello coaxed as he tried valiantly to wipe the grime from his brother's face with his fingers.

Strained wheezing and wet coughing escaped Leonardo's throat, and finally a burdened, "Master... Splinter..."


End file.
